The Unseen Hand of Destiny
by Troubador
Summary: Taking place at the very end of the Age of Legends, this short story introduces a group of men known as The Unseen Hand of Destiny who live to guard prophecy and pattern alike, ensuring that the Wheel of Time will never stop turning.


Ara'Haran Maral  
  
1 The Unseen Hand of Destiny  
  
A short story based in the world of Robert Jordan's The Wheel of Time  
  
2 By: Colin William Coyle  
  
The Wheel of Time turns, and Ages come and pass, leaving memories that become legend. Legend fades to myth, and even myth is long forgotten when the Age that gave it birth comes again. In one Age, called the Age of Legends by some, an Age yet to come, an Age long past, a wind rose above the blackened slopes of Dragonmount. The wind was not the beginning. There are neither beginnings nor endings to the turning of the Wheel of Time. But it was a beginning.  
  
South the wind blew over the banks of the River Luan where the men who worked its waters stood with their heads back, gaping at the sight of Dragonmount splitting the dawn sky. The mountain that marked Lews Therin's demise stretched out like the talon of a creature reaching up from the grave. Simple folk they were who lived in fear of The One Power, minds filled with stories of the Companions running wild with The Power. Many shielded their eyes, some stared, aghast with horror, until their sight was taken from them by the blinding light. Still others ended their own lives in fear of The Dark One's hand, transforming tools that had once been a way of life into weapons of war.  
  
On to the West the wind blew, ignorant of the pain and fear, only carrying its odor to the Sheep-filled pastures of the grand kingdom of Manetheren. The wool-coated animals grazed in blissful ignorance of the wind, oblivious to the men of war marching among them who were headed to stay the tides of the Dark One's armies. The wind whipped up the cloak of Deryck Val'Shir, Lord General of the personal guard of Ara'Haran Maral, and tore it from his back. The spoked wheel and scarlet serpent that was both the Wheel of Time and the emblem of the Ara'Haran rose into the sky, unfurled as though a banner, and was carried to the highest tower of the palace of Manetheren where it lay to rest upon the council table of Ara'Haran Maral, "The Unseen Hand of Destiny".  
  
Balakoth Sarkkann Valsharen, First Disciple of Ara'Haran Maral, felt a chill sink into his body as eyes too wise to belong to his young face examined the garment, as dark as midnight, that had found its way into the council chambers. The leathery face of the ancient Warrior Prophet creased as his eyes, deep pools of the blood they had seen so many times spill into the land, squeezed shut against the realization of what the wind had brought. Around the council table, four sets of eyes settled on the M'Hael, "Teacher" in the old tongue. Each bearing within them a question, but all the same question.  
  
The eyes most intent belonged to a man who's tongue was always first to cut the silence. A half-breed of man and Dark Elf, he was a man that had spent most of his existence in shadow and darkness, in this world his sight would invite cries of "Dark Friend" or "Shadow Beast". Arguile Azeraith leaned forward and settled his chin on steepled fingers, lifeless eyes of ametrine studying the face of the M'Hael. For the first, it was not Arguile's voice that ended the somber silence, but the deep sigh of the Second Disciple, Archaeus of the Ebon Robes.  
  
The Second Disciple rested his weary face in hands gnarled more from years of endless battle than from age; for his face, like that of the others, was untouched by age. He alone of Ara'Haran Maral grasped the flows of saidin, the male half of the One Power. The master of the arcane traced the grains of the ancient oaken council table with cold eyes of a deep green. More and more, the focus of his pointless task began to grasp the focus of his mind, unwilling to leave it idle long enough to calculate the signs that were plain to see.  
  
Whereas the mind of Archaeus was silent and intent, that of Lucifer, Shadar Dore "The Shadow Dancer", was racing with the voices and thoughts that only accompany insanity. The somber man, eyes the same vitae as those of the M'Hael, battled back the constant urge to grab the reigns of saidin and ride the tides of its power. Eyes wild with life and hatred for that very thing darted with a certain controlled madness over the faces of his companions. They settled at last, quizzically, upon the seraphine face of Ashe Raijan.  
  
The man seemed an odd companion to the dark men gathered around the table, all of whom radiated a sense of ominous power. He was a stark contrast to the others, where they seemed to have been formed from battle and death, he was surrounded with an air of serenity. Eyes of sharp azure set in a smooth face gave the muscle-bound man a look as though he were shaped by the hand of the Creator himself. The powerful jaw knotted with tension was the only sign that this man knew the importance of the afterwash of saidin that was carried into the room.  
  
All of these things, the most insignificant signs of tension, were registered and interpreted in the single passing of emerald eyes sharper than any blade crafted by hand or the One Power. Cervantes Victus, now known as Baal Del Elghin "The Dark Angel", was a living weapon. He towered almost two full heads over most men. The sinewy arms folded across his chest seemed as though they belonged on a Trolloc, a creature that was more beast than human, rather than a man. The Heron-marked blade that rested at his hip seemed to quiver with the electricity in the room as Baal thoughtfully stroked his chin with one hand. It was his voice, booming even at its quietest, that broke the silence. "I return you, Lews Therin, to the last embrace of the Mother."  
  
All eyes but those of the M'Hael burned into Baal. The man was a fearsome apparition, standing behind Balakoth Sarkkann Valsharen as though the sight of him alone was enough to ward off threats. Arguile, as is wont to be expected, spoke in a voice with all the calm of water about to boil.  
  
"The Wheel has turned full, the cycle has begun again. It is time for Da'Carai to once again become the Ara'Haran, The Unseen Hand." His deep gaze drifted to the unreadable face of the M'Hael, waiting for the man to affirm his proposal.  
  
"Da'Carai?" The question spilled as a muse from the lips of the M'Hael as his eyes rose to sweep those gathered. "Dark Honor? Is that who we are in this Age? Guardians of Destiny we have been past and shall be again, Harbingers of the Dawn as well. Now we are to be known as The Dark Honor…" His monologue trailed off with a chuckle to be continued in his own mind as Balakoth returned the watchful gaze of Arguile.  
  
"It means nothing, Balakoth, it is a name given to us just as meaningless as all others. In the First Age we were called by The Dark Wind." Archaeus shifted in his seat as his attentions did likewise. While at first he had seemed distant, the Arcane's eyes were now intent on his companions'. "We are the Unseen Hand of Destiny, regardless of how the mensch deem to call us."  
  
Shadar Dore rose from the council table and began to pace behind his chair. A man of action and not of idle chatter, the path along which this conversation was winding seemed futile to him. One hand thoughtlessly stroked the hilt of Lucifer's belt knife as a sharp gaze swept the others. "A cycle has ended, we are on the brink of a beginning, and you debate the history of our name? Our name is nothing, my friends, it is our mission that defines us. We are they who are guardians of the prophecies, those who have stood sentinel over the pattern and assured that the final weave is not made. That is what we must now be thinking of. It is time that we left the pattern to prepare for the next coming of the Dragon." An accusatory gaze burrowed into the tanned face of the M'Hael, all but ordering him to take action.  
  
It was instead the serene Ashe who spoke next. "That is the point, dear assassin. Of the name, that is. We are dark, there is no question of that. We must be dark both in our secrets and our actions if our mission is to continue. Those mensch understand more than you would think, Archaeus." The word is spit from the man's lips as though its very speaking leaves a taste as foul as a Trolloc's meat.  
  
Through this exchange, the M'Hael folded his arms atop the conference table and drew to his full height in the chair. "Lucifer is correct, if a bit overzealous. The name is meaningless. As he has said, it is the mission that defines us and that mission is calling. We must make preparations for the Corenne, the return." Only a moment was spent on thought before Balakoth gave his orders. This was an exchange that had occurred countless times before and, if all was done correctly, would occur countless times more. The M'Hael made no further hesitation before speaking.  
  
"Archaeus, you must see that the necessary prophecies are recorded and will remain for those of the next age. Arguile, travel to Val'Shir's side and ensure that the Shadow makes itself unseen once again. Lucifer, you know who and what you must take care of. May your blade be true. I myself shall travel through the lands and be sure that the prophecies and technologies of this Age are lost to the next. Baal, you must keep watch over all. The survival of each one of us is the most important of any other mission. Ashe, it is on you to lead the kingdom that shall be First among those of the next Age. It is through you that our name and our story shall be preserved for the next cycle."  
  
As he speaks to each man, the M'Hael's full attention is focused on him. It is clear to see why he among the conclave is called The Teacher. His voice is sure, his orders unquestionable. The M'Hael is a man who reads the pattern as most men can read a nursery rhyme. To him, the next Age may as well not happen for all that it will have already been laid before his mind's eye.  
  
Around the chamber, bars of light split the air in rapid succession, each twisting and contorting from a rift in the air to form a gateway to another place. Baal is the only man that remains behind as each member of the council crosses through to their destinations. He addresses the empty council chamber before turning to face his own exit. His voice, only a whisper, fills the hollow chamber with a sound that seems to echo on unto eternity. "The most frightening knowledge about the end is that there is always another beginning. And yet, it is also the most comforting thing to know."  
  
The comment hangs in the air as The Dark Angel steps through the gateway and passes beyond the pattern into stasis. The wind dies down in the fields of Manetheren. The wind was not the end. There are neither endings nor beginnings to the turning of the Wheel of Time. But it was an end. 


End file.
